


Sapphic Love Letters to a Siren

by SyrenGrey



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Emotional, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Feels, Ficlet, Gay, Hermione and Ginny, Hurt/Comfort, Lesbian Character, Love Letters, POV Lesbian Character, Poetic, Possibly Unrequited Love, Queer Character, Queer Themes, Sweet, Yearning Love, feminine, girls, romantic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:07:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22709746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SyrenGrey/pseuds/SyrenGrey
Summary: Had I known the way my heart would flutter and swell at your presence, I would have reconsidered.Had I thought my bones would ache at seeing you fawning over boys with innocent frivolity, I would have charted a different course.I should have known it was you. Your fiery spirit. The smell ofyourhair in the swirling fumes of Amortensia that made me delirious. I fought my heart and deluded myself into thinking Ron would be enough, all while longing for his sister. If I knew...Hermione/Ginny. Ficlet.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Ginny Weasley
Comments: 7
Kudos: 30





	Sapphic Love Letters to a Siren

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note:  
>  ** _Please do not upload this fic to another site/server without my explicit consent.  
> _**  
>  Feel free to reach out if there is interest, I am quite responsive.
> 
> Thank you,  
> Syren

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You're painting your lips like cherries, glistening and red. With each gentle stroke of the brush over the hypnotizing curves of your lips, I yearn to bring them to my mouth for a taste.

I'm curled across the room with a book in my lap I've been pretending to read for fifteen minutes as you partake in your bi-weekly ritual of adorning yourself with fake jewels, squeezing into a delicate dress, and painting your perfect features for another desirable passer-by who is too consumed in themselves to see the spirit that burns in you.

The words repeat themselves as I glance at them in my tome, my eyes accustomed to washing over you and drifting away when your attention moves to me.

You are hardly dressed. With a black lace bra and matching knickers that contrast starkly against the whiteness of your skin, I let my gaze draw down your curving form and luminous complexion that is spotted with faint freckles from your head to your foot.

"My," you call out my silly little nickname. A slivered piece of Hermione you have made your own. _My._ How I wish I were a belonging of yours. I smile politely toward your face that radiates as the streams of windowed sunlight wash over your ivory skin and glittering amber locks.

"Hm?"

"Can you do my hair again?"

My tongue runs over my lips, leaving a layer of softened wetness that dissipates as I speak.

"Of course, Gin," I reply as I rise to my feet and draw toward you.

I can feel my heart pound harder with each step of my foot, with each inch that closes between us as I gather my strength to hide.

Hide myself and shroud my heart from the inconvenience of feelings as they violently flourish inside me at your presence. I ache as I reach for you, my fingers running through the silk that is your hair, against the heat of your scalp as I touch you so intimately I die a little with each passing moment that I withhold my truth and keep the forbidden desires to myself.

"The French braid again?" I ask, my voice steady though I am shattered inside as I prepare you to go to someone else.

"Mhmm!"

I watch as my fingers peek through the vibrant flames of satin strands and you stare at yourself with discerning sharpness in your honeyed eyes, undoubtedly identifying every little insecurity that plagues your mind. I can tell by the lopsided purse of your lips and the way your gaze lingers on your nose that you are unhappy.

"You look beautiful," I reassure you. Your eyes suddenly sparkle as you glance at me through the mirror.

"You're too sweet."

I'm not. I don't tell you to be nice to you, I tell you because it's all I can see.

You're everywhere. The scent of your skin on the bedsheets. The steam after your showers. The way you leave little tissues with your cherry-coloured kisses as you blot the paint off.

I thought living with you would be easy. Natural. Two best friends making a home a few years out of school, wide-eyed with our feet barely wet as we navigate the silly struggles of our twenties.

Had I known the way my heart would flutter and swell at your presence, I would have reconsidered.

Had I thought my bones would ache at seeing you fawning over boys with innocent frivolity, I would have charted a different course.

I should have known it was you. Your fiery spirit. The smell of _your_ hair in the swirling fumes of Amortensia that made me delirious. I fought my heart and deluded myself into thinking Ron would be enough, all while longing for his sister. If I knew...

I look at myself in the mirror as my fingers finish their weaving of your ginger hair, and I see the purest example of plainness looking back.

I wish you could see your beauty.

My fingers run down the soft skin of your neck as I envision them drawing further down the arc of your bare back.

I wish you could see the way the freckles on your face form constellations of divine grace. The way your laughter warms the coldest winter nights.

I glance at the mirror again and feel my heart flutter as your amber gaze meets mine, a look of thoughtfulness to your features.

I can feel my fingers growing cold as my chest tightens at the stare, but I don't look away from your hypnotizing eyes. I want to run away, yet I yearn to pull you into me. I am frozen as I feel the warmth of your fingertips over the back of my hand that lay resting on the delicate curve of your shoulder. As your fingers squeeze around mine and you draw my hand toward you, I feel the pillowy sweet sensation of your lips and I watch you press them against the skin of my palm. I can hear nothing - the sounds of automobiles from the streets below, the strum of guitar in the music that was playing, the way my heart is floundering in my chest - all is deafened by the sensation of your lips as I watch without breath as you withdraw.

"Thanks, love," I hear your melodic voice as you slip away, leaving me behind.

I am abandoned as you finish your preparation. I am stranded without you as you gather your things and leave, seeking the arms of another.

I am left here, with the stain of your cherry-red lips.

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End file.
